McClintock watched her interestedly until her golden head vanished below; then, with tolerant pity, he looked down at Spurlock, who had closed his eyes. Ann Veronica was lying on her bed in a darkling room staring at the ceiling. ‘I was just looking the place over when I heard you calling out. If he awoke and caught you at it, there might be a set-back. I am out of your life forever, never having been in it. ‘You ought to be glad someone cares enough about your wretched little neck to try and save it. It was a large, littered, self-forgetful apartment, decorated with unframed charcoal sketches by various incipient masters; and an open bookcase, surmounted by plaster casts and the half of a human skull, displayed an odd miscellany of books—Shaw and Swinburne, Tom Jones, Fabian Essays, Pope and Dumas, cheek by jowl. Her roving eagerness was at all times shaded with shyness, reserve, repression.
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